Stingaree

W. Hornung E.

Description

A mysterious stranger appears at a secluded compound in the Australian outback. Gallant and sophisticated, it is clear that his past is at odds with his current situation. Where did he come from, and why has he condemned himself to such a primitive existence? Find out in E. W. Hornung's thrilling Stingaree.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776534517
• Langue: English

Extrait

STINGAREE
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E. W. HORNUNG
 
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Stingaree First published in 1905 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-451-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-452-4 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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A Voice in the Wilderness The Black Hole of Glenranald "To the Vile Dust" A Bushranger at Bay The Taking of Stingaree The Honor of the Road The Purification of Mulfera A Duel in the Desert The Villain-Worshipper The Moth and the Star
A Voice in the Wilderness
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I
"La parlate d'amor, O cari fior, Recate i miei sospiri, Narrate i miei matiri, Ditele o cari fior—"
Miss Bouverie ceased on the high note, as abruptly as string that snapsbeneath the bow, and revolved with the music-stool, to catch but herechoes in the empty room. None had entered behind her back; there wasneither sound nor shadow in the deep veranda through the open door. Butfor the startled girl at the open piano, Mrs. Clarkson's sanctum wasprecisely as Mrs. Clarkson had left it an hour before; her ownphotograph, in as many modes, beamed from the usual number of ornamentalframes; there was nothing whatever to confirm a wild suspicion of theliving lady's untimely return. And yet either guilty consciences, or anear as sensitive as it was true, had heard an unmistakable step outside.
Hilda Bouverie lived to look magnificent when she sang, her fine framedrawn up to its last inch, her throat a pillar of pale coral, her mouththe perfect round, her teeth a noble relic of barbarism; but sweeter shenever was than in these days, or at this moment of them, as she sat withlips just parted and teeth just showing, in a simple summer frock of herown unaided making. Her eyes, of the one deep Tasmanian blue, were stillopen very wide, but no longer with the same apprehension; for a stepthere was, but a step that jingled; nor did they recognize thesilhouette in top-boots which at length stood bowing on the threshold.
"Please finish it!" prayed a voice that Miss Bouverie liked in her turn;but it was too much at ease for one entirely strange to her, and sherose with little embarrassment and no hesitation at all.
"Indeed, no! I thought I had the station to myself."
"So you had—I have not seen a soul."
Miss Bouverie instantly perceived that honors were due from her.
"I am so sorry! You've come to see Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson?" she cried."Mrs. Clarkson has just left for Melbourne with her maid, and Mr.Clarkson has gone mustering with all his men. But the Indian cook isabout somewhere. I'll find him, and he shall make some tea."
The visitor planted himself with much gallantry in the doorway; he was aman still young, with a single eye-glass and a martial mustache, whichcombined to give distinction to a somewhat swarthy countenance. At themoment he had also an engaging smile.
"I didn't come to see either Mr. or Mrs. Clarkson," said he; "in fact, Inever heard their name before. I was passing the station, and I simplycame to see who it was who could sing like that—to believe my ownears!"
Miss Bouverie was thrilled. The stranger spoke with an authority thatshe divined, a sincerity which she instinctively took on trust. Herbreath came quickly; she was a little nervous now.
"If you won't sing to my face," he went on, "I must go back to where Ihung up my horse, and pray that you will at least send me on my wayrejoicing. You will do that in any case. I didn't know there was such avoice in these parts. You sing a good deal, of course?"
"I haven't sung for months."
He was now in the room; there was no longer any necessity to bar thedoorway, and the light coming through fell full on his amazement. Thegirl stood before him with a calm face, more wistful than ironic, yetwith hints of humor in the dark blue eyes. Her companion put up theeye-glass which he had dropped at her reply.
"May I ask what you are doing in these wilds?"
"Certainly. I am Mrs. Clarkson's companion."
"And you sing, for the first time in months, the minute her back isturned: has the lady no soul for music?"
"You had better ask the lady."
And her visible humor reached the corners of Miss Bouverie's mouth.
"She sings herself, perhaps?"
"And I am here to play her accompaniments!"
The eye-glass focussed the great, smiling girl.
" Can she sing?"
"She has a voice."
"But have you never let her hear yours?"
"Once. I had not been here long enough to know better. And I made myusual mistake."
"What is that?"
"I thought I had the station to myself."
The questioner bowed to his rebuke. "Well?" he persisted none the less.
"I was told exactly what my voice was like, and fit for."
The gentleman turned on his heel, as though her appreciation of thehumor of her position were an annoyance to him. His movement brought himface to face with a photographic galaxy of ladies in varying styles ofevening dress, with an equal variety in coiffures, but a certain familylikeness running through the series.
"Are any of these Mrs. Clarkson?"
"All of them."
He muttered something in his mustache. "And what's this?" he asked of asudden.
The young man (for as such Miss Bouverie was beginning to regard him)was standing under the flaming bill of a grand concert to be given inthe township of Yallarook for the benefit of local charities.
"Oh, that's Mrs. Clarkson's concert," he was informed. "She has beengetting it up, and that's why she's had to go to Melbourne—about herdress, you know."
He smiled sardonically through mustache and monocle.
"Her charity begins near home!"
"It need not necessarily end there."
"Yet she sings five times herself."
"True—without the encores."
"And you don't sing at all."
"But I accompany."
"A bitter irony! But, I say, what's this? 'Under the distinguishedpatronage of Sir Julian Crum, Mus. Doc., D.C.L.' Who may he be?"
"Director of the Royal College of Music, in the old country," the girlanswered with a sigh.
"Royal College of Music? That's something new, since my time," said thevisitor, sighing also. "But what's a man like that doing out here?"
"He has a brother a squatter, the next station but one. Sir Julian'sspending the English winter with him on account of his health."
"So you've seen something of him?"
"I wish we had."
"But Mrs. Clarkson has?"
"No—not yet."
"I see!" and an enlightened gleam shot through the eye-glass. "So thisis her way of getting to know a poor overworked wreck who came out topatch his lungs in peace and quiet! And she's going to sing him one ofhis own songs; she's gone to Melbourne to dress the part; and you're notgoing to sing anything at all!"
Miss Bouverie refrained alike from comment and confirmation; but hersilence was the less creditable in that her companion was now communingchiefly with himself. She felt, indeed, that she had already been guiltyof a certain disloyalty to one to whom she owed some manner ofallegiance; but that was the extent of Miss Bouverie's indiscretion inher own eyes. It caused her no qualms to entertain an anonymousgentleman whom she had never seen before. A colder course had commendeditself to the young lady fresh from London; but to a Colonial girl, on astation where special provision was made for the entertaining of strangetravellers, the situation was simply conventional. It might have beenless onerous with host or hostess on the spot; but then the visitorwould not have heard her sing, and he seemed to know what singing was.
Miss Bouverie watched him as he leant over the piano, looking throughthe songs which she had dared once more to bring forth from her room.She might well have taken a romantic interest in the dark and dapperman, with the military eye-glass and mustache, the spruce duck jacketand the spurred top-boots. It was her first meeting with such a type inthe back-blocks of New South Wales. The gallant ease, the naturalgayety, the charming manners that charmed no less for a clear trace ofmannerism, were a peculiar refreshment after society racier of Riverinasoil. Yet it was none of these things which attracted this woman to thisman; for the susceptible girl was dead in her for the time being; butthe desperate artist was alive again after many weeks, was panting forfresh life, was catching at a straw. He had heard her sing. It hadbrought him galloping off the track. He praised her voice; and heknew—he knew what singing was.
Who could he be? Not . . . could that be possible?
"Sing me this," he said, suddenly, and, seating himself at the piano,played the opening bars of a vocal adaptation of Handel's Largo with ajust, though unpractised, touch.
Nothing could have afforded a finer hearing of the quality and thecompass of her voice, and she knew of old how well it suited her; yet atthe outset, from the sheer excitement of her suspicion, Hilda Bouveriewas shaky to the point of a pronounced tremolo. It wore off with thelengthening cadences, and in a minute the little building was burstingwith her voice, while the pianist swayed and bent upon his stool withthe exuberant sympathy of a brother in art. And when the last rich notehad died away he wheeled about, and so sat silent for many moments,looking curiously on her flushed face and panting bosom.
"I can't place your voice," he said, at last. "It's both voices—themost wonderful compass in the world—and the world will tell you so,when you go back to it, as go back you must and shall. May I ask thename of your master?"
"My own name—Bouverie. It was my father. He is dead."
Her eyes glistened.
"You did not go to another?"
"